


Oh What a Night

by TheMan_and_TheMachine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 12:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10437897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMan_and_TheMachine/pseuds/TheMan_and_TheMachine
Summary: The story takes place around the time of  Season 3 "The Sign of Three", soon after the Watson's wedding. Sherlock's emotions will take over that of his rational mind and seek solace in drug use, but will friends and family be enough to dig him out of the dark pit he created for himself?





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Drug use will be prominent in this chapter but will slowly dissipate as the chapters continue)  
> (Since I'm new to AO3 and this is the first story I've written/put online please leave constructive criticism. I would like to improve my writing)  
> (Any thoughts are in brackets as I don't know how to do italics or font changes through AO3)

It was the night of John and Mary’s wedding when Sherlock decided it was best to leave early, it was also the night that spiraled him into relapse. 

Sherlock had enough of standing awkwardly alone watching everyone he knew having fun without him; he felt secluded. Anyone he imagined to approach would most likely end up making him feel like a third wheel, which he detested, but most of all, he hated small talk and avoided it if at all possible. All he wanted to do at this point was to go home. As he was preparing to leave, he put on his Belstaff to brace the weather and stuck his hands in his pocket. His hand hit what felt like a piece of paper in his left pocket, it was the waltz that he had written for the newly weds, John and Mary Watson. He neatly folded the piece of notepaper and placed it on top of the note stand, giving it a last once-over glance and gave a half smile. He recalled the recent memory of playing the piece on the violin, while John and Mary danced quite effortlessly and the guests looked on teary eyed. He knew that he had done his job well, as best man and to the best of his ability, he had given it more thought and consideration than in any case he had worked on. John deserved nothing less and only the best. What counted above all was that John and Mary were happy, especially with the breaking news of a baby on the way. 

[With a new born, they wont need me around.]

He patted the note, an equivalent to an adieu to the good times and even the bad ones, and looked over to the Watson’s and saw Mary trying to shout over the music and into John’s ear, for which he responded with a hearty laugh and embraced her by the waist. The song had shifted from a disco fever to a slow romance. 

[Dreadful.] 

He scanned the crowd and spotted Molly who had begun to close the space between her new fiancée and draped her arms around him as he draped his around her waist. He moved his eyes over to detective inspector Lestrade who had been drunkingly talking to Mrs. Hudson who looked like she was listening intently to the conversation, only to nod or laugh occasionally. Even Major Shalto was long gone, so he wouldn’t even be able to speak to him about his time in the war or that of his time with John. 

[Anyone else? Boring.]

He took the start of the new song as his queue to leave. Though he loved to dance and told almost no one, there was no possible scenario where he saw himself dancing a slow tune, with a stranger, no less. Sherlock’s job was done and over, it was time, time for him to go home, even though he felt something … or someone anchoring him there- he knew who it was, but he didn’t dare make a move. It was too late, too risky, even way back then with Moriarty around...  
Sherlock ended up walking part way home before hailing a cab. The fresh air had given him a chance to catch up with the events of the day. He had hoped that the walk would have settled his now disorganized thoughts, but to no avail. Being best man, solving murders, interacting with people, but most of all saying his goodbyes to John had drained him both emotionally and physically; “The end of era”, berated his thoughts. The cab driver that picked him up had tried to start a conversation with him, instantly recognizing him as the famous detective, but Sherlock only gave him short and dry responses. He really was not in the mood to entertain and quite frankly didn’t want to talk to anyone. Although the given situation, this was enough to keep the cab driver talking alone. 

[Oh G-d, my cab driver is a, “#1 fan”, I don’t know how much more I can take. If he doesn’t stop chatting or get me to my flat soon enough, I may just open the door and roll out of the cab and continue the trek by foot.]

He knew why he was acting this way; he just didn’t want to admit it to himself or say it out loud. He was scared. Scared, it would ruin his friendship with John. If he were to confess his feelings to John, the feelings he kept secret for so long, he wouldn’t know how John would react and it couldn’t be unspoken once the truth came out, if he found that John didn’t feel the same way. His mind swirled with thoughts that only served to berate him: 

[All lives end... all hearts are broken... Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock. It’s the end of an era. Well it’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary. Domestic bliss. Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock. Ooh, it’s the end of an era. Redbeard.]

He sighed heavily and ended it with a grunt, waving his hand to wisp away the thoughts as they formed. He pressed his palms over his eyes and ran them down his face. He wanted to stop thinking; his mind had been spinning out of control ever since he left the wedding. He wanted…no needed to feel numb to his emotions, to be able to not think about his feelings, not address them…to not think about John. He fished his phone out of his coat, only to blink rapidly by the sudden brightness being emitted by the phone and checked the time; he couldn’t believe it was only 10 p.m, it was too early to sleep. The night was still young. He stalled for some time on the leather seat of the cab, fidgeting with the keys on his phone deciding how to go about the rest of the night, except he knew how he wanted the night to end-with John by his side. All he would go home to was an empty flat, even Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be home until late into the night, unless of course she found a suitable man which meant she wouldn’t be back until morning.

[Ugh, the thought of that.  
Oh John, you have gone and left me so alone.]

He scrolled through his contact list until he found the name Billy. Billy was one of the few dealers within his network that had the purest of drugs in his arsenal and the only dealer he trusted….well not so much trusted, rather the only dealer that owed him a favor. He was able to defend him against a false claim of stealing drugs, made from another dealer across town and got him off scotch free; Billy had owed him this one. 

 

Come at once. 221B Baker Street. Leave me the usual. You owe me.  
-Shezza ✓✓

 

Shezza was his code name when he went looking for drugs, he didn’t want dealers or some of the underground network knowing his real name. They also didn’t know where he lived, but these were harrowing and desperate times. The message was sent and read, it was too late for Sherlock to take it back now. 

[No regrets and no return.]

It was not too long when he had received the text back from Billy with a simple ok. Tonight, he thought, I wont feel anything except bliss, a drug induced bliss. He was giddy as a child who was promised candy and started to look forward to the night, to the feelings of euphoria the drugs would give him, but in the back of his mind he felt fear. Fear of what may lie ahead. He started eyeing the clock on the taxi’s dashboard more intently now. 

………..

 

When he finally reached the flat, he shoved his hands into his pockets and manically searched for his keys. 

[Damn those pesky keys. If I’ve lost them or left them behind at the wedding, I swear, I’m not going back!]

In the rush and excitement to find his keys he missed them almost entirely, when he finally found them at the bottom of his right coat pocket. 

[Would have hated to have lost these on a night like this.]

He jammed the key into the lock, turned the knob, and with one swift motion swung open the door causing some dust and papers on his desk to waft down to the floor. The flat was a bit dirty, but nothing too out of place. He had beakers and papers here and there scattered across all and any of the flat surfaces he could find. It was dimly lit by the table lamp he had unintentionally left on when he headed out to the wedding that morning with John in tow. There was also the light of the city peeking through the window curtains, otherwise it would have been completely dark. He looked around the flat with the feeling of loss and sighed. He looked over to John’s chair and couldn’t bring himself to think too much about it-it’d hurt him to think that John wouldn’t be there anymore and disengaging his eyes from the comfy chair didn’t help at all.

[John…]

John’s memory was in every bit of every corner of the flat. Everywhere Sherlock’s eyes scanned he would think of the times spent going over cases, reading in the living room, having to listen to Johns terrible jokes over breakfast in the kitchen, or just watching John type away in his blog by the fire while Sherlock busied himself on his phone. Just, everywhere he looked was a memory. No, now it was just a reminder of what once was.  
He attempted to set his eyes at his feet as to stop his mind from reminiscing, when he noticed that Billy had come and gone leaving behind some small baggies he’d slipped underneath his door. A small note was tapped to the bundle that read: I hope we're even now. He bent over and swiftly picked them up in one hand. Each had their own sticker on them representing his drug of choice, cocaine, but two of them had caught his eye. There had been six in total, Sherlock knew that four of the white baggies were cocaine while the other two blue baggies were meth. He clutched his hand around the baggies tightly with the thought of the impending night. 

[Guess Billy was fanciful; good to know he repays a favor abundantly well.  
Oh what a night indeed John. What a night this will be.]

He now felt a sense of urgency to get the drugs in his system and placed them on top of the messy kitchen table pushing aside some beakers and files that had been there from a previously solved murder case, one that John only left half-written that morning. His heart raced with anticipation and his palms started to feel clammy. Sherlock quickly took off both his Belfstaff and dress coat and hung them both across his chair with care. If it’s the one other thing cared for, it was his Belstaff. It kept him warm in the darkest of days, days such as these. He continued by untying his bow tie and tossed it to the floor and rolling up his sleeves with his hands now shaking. He paced to and from the flat going through all of his usual hiding spots and the new ones he created soon after John, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson ran sacked the place last Christmas, when they thought Irene had died. He found 3 clean needles in a space carved out from a book John would never bother to pick up or read- “Tabaco: a Cultural History”, a lighter under Billy the skull, some cotton and water from the bathroom, a spoon from the kitchen, a credit card from his wallet, and a tourniquet that had been stashed in the small nook from the back of his closet. He set all his loot onto the kitchen table with clanks, bangs, and bumps. He pulled a kitchen chair to better steady himself and began preparing the dosage he would take. 

 

[What shall I start the night with? hmmm. Meth or cocaine? Maybe a mix of both? No. I’ll start with cocaine, it’s more familiar and start night easy. It wont be too bad, just a little to take the edge off and clear my mind. Only for tonight...]

He was on edge, anxious, and nervous. He hadn’t gotten high for what felt like long a long time and breaking his clean streak disappointed not only himself, but those who loved him. He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and then began unwrapping the first 3 baggies nearest to him and placed them on a small plate. The small plate was John’s, he remembered, it even still had breadcrumbs from breakfast that morning. He swiped away the crumbs and emptied the contents of the baggies until all that covered the plate was the white powder. He hadn’t bothered weighing the cocaine, chopped the solids out with his credit card, and eyeballed the dosage he would take. The needle had been prepped and ready, he was ready… sort of. He double-checked that he placed the tourniquet in just the right spot on his left arm and gave it a slight tug, perfectly snug. He held the clean needle against his forearm, needle barely touching the blue streak just under his skin-a viable vein. As ready as he could have ever felt, he could hear John begging in his head.

[Oh, Sherlock.  
You’ve been so good.  
Please don’t. For me.]

He looked over to John’s now empty chair, needle still balanced in his right hand.

[Oh John, I owe you so much but now I am all alone. I no longer have you here by my side. You are my best mate, friend, and…and I love you but even now I can’t bring the words to reality. They simply linger on my lips. I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long but now…now you have married and moved on. Look at what you’ve done to me, what you’ve left of me. You’ve broken me and I feel…I feel so alone. I hope you understand John but I have to let you go…but I find that can’t, I don’t know how, how can I? I love you John and I regret that I was not able to tell you in time. I am a coward and I am so sorry. Love, a chemical defect of the losing side and this…this is a battle I’ve lost to your name, for I am forever yours.]

His heart ached, his chest heaved, and he started to feel his eyes sting. Tears had started to well in Sherlock’s eyes and for once he let himself cry without attempting to wipe them away and the tears had begun to streak down his face. He let himself wallow and stew in his loss. Tears began to drip onto the now soaked dress pants. He allowed himself to cry, howl, hunch over the edge of the table, hiccup, and cough away because he knew that no matter how much noise he’d make and how much heartbreak he’d feel that night, no one would be there for him. No one.

[Why does it have to hurt so damn much?  
It doesn’t have to, not tonight.]

He plunged the needle into his forearm and hit a vein on the first try; years of practice had made Sherlock a professional. He lifted the plunger up a bit to see blood fill in the syringe mix with the drug concoction and pressed the plunger all the way down. He sucked in a deep breath as he felt the initial rush and felt his thoughts and emotions melt away as soon as the cocaine hit him. All that mattered in this moment was how good he felt. The tension that had built in his body was now being released. His shoulders relaxed, his breath was more even, he felt a bit nauseous but nothing he couldn’t handle, and best of all he felt euphoric. It had been so long since he used that he’d forgotten just how good it felt to get high. His tears had stopped and he let himself get taken over by the feeling, he thought of nothing and felt for nothing-or no one for that matter. He allowed himself to bask in the euphoric moment and let the needle slide from his hand and roll across the kitchen table.


End file.
